A Traitor's Shadow
The morning after Dante's death dawned gray and heavy. Clouds hung low, and the air carried the weight of smoke and rain, as if the city itself mourned the carnage.
Inside the Moretti estate, the atmosphere was no lighter. Men moved like ghosts through the halls, tending to wounds, whispering about the war's end. But no one dared say what they all feared: that peace could not last.
Lucian sat at the long dining table, a cup of untouched coffee cooling before him. His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles raw. He hadn't slept. He didn't need to. Not when his mind was a battlefield louder than any gunfight.
Elena entered quietly, Isabella clinging to her hand. She placed a gentle kiss on Lucian's cheek before setting food before him. He caught her wrist, held it a moment, then let go without a word. She understood — he was there, but not.
The war had ended, but its ghost still haunted him.
---
By noon, his men gathered in the war room. Maps and ledgers littered the table, Dante's operations already being dismantled and absorbed. Lucian stood at the head, his presence commanding even in silence.
"We've won," his underboss, Matteo, said, his voice carrying forced optimism. "The docks are ours. The shipments are secured. What's left of Dante's men are scattered."
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "Scattered men regroup. Scattered men can still kill."
The room quieted.
"Until every loose thread is cut, none of you should think of this as victory," he growled.
Heads nodded. No one argued.
But as the meeting ended, a strange unease lingered in the room. A glance shared too long. A silence held too tight. Lucian noticed. He always noticed.
---
That night, Elena found him in the courtyard, a cigar glowing between his fingers. He stood by the fountain, the water shimmering silver under moonlight.
"You're still searching," she said softly, stepping closer.
"For what?" His tone was flat.
"The war's over. But you don't believe it, do you?"
He exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing into the dark. "Dante was smart. But someone smarter kept him alive this long. Someone fed him weapons, money, men. He wasn't pulling the strings alone."
Her heart clenched. "You think there's someone else?"
Lucian turned to her, his face a mask of steel. "I know there is. And until I find out who, none of us are safe."
The fountain gurgled behind them. The night air pressed heavy. Elena realized then — this wasn't the end. It was only an interlude.
---
Later, while the house slept, a shadow moved through the halls. The traitor.
He crept into Lucian's study, his hands slick with sweat. Pulling the burner phone from his pocket, he whispered into the receiver.
"Yes. He suspects nothing. He thinks Dante was the end. He doesn't know the truth."
The voice on the other end was cold, smooth. "Good. Keep it that way. For now. Soon, we'll strike, and when we do, Moretti will fall harder than Marino ever dreamed."
The man swallowed hard, glancing at the door as though Lucian might burst through it. "And the woman? The child?"
A pause. Then a chilling answer. "Collateral."
The line went dead.
The traitor's hand shook as he slipped the phone away. He turned — and froze.
Lucian was in the doorway.
---
The silence stretched, lethal.
Lucian's figure filled the frame, his eyes glowing in the dim light like a predator's. He said nothing, only watched.
The traitor's breath stuttered. "Boss, I—"
"Who?" Lucian's voice was a blade.
The man stammered. "I… I don't know what you—"
Lucian moved faster than sight. In two strides, he was across the room, his hand around the man's throat, slamming him into the desk. Papers scattered, glass shattered.
"Don't lie to me." His grip tightened. "Who are you talking to?!"
The man clawed at Lucian's wrist, gasping. "I… I can't—"
Lucian's fist drove into his gut, folding him in half. He hit the ground, wheezing.
Lucian crouched, his face inches away, voice low and poisonous. "You betray me, betray my family, and you think you'll live long enough to confess? Tell me who owns you, or I'll make you beg for death."
The man coughed, blood staining his lips. Terror quaked through him. Finally, a name slipped out, trembling like a curse.
"El… Ellington."
Lucian froze.
The traitor's eyes widened at his own words. "They're back. They're coming for you."
---
Lucian stood slowly, the name sinking into his bones like ice. The Ellingtons. A dynasty long thought buried, an empire dismantled years ago. Rivals older than Dante, older than half the families still standing.
He had buried them. Or so he thought.
But ghosts had a way of clawing back from the grave.
The traitor whimpered at Lucian's feet. "Please… I had no choice. They'll kill me—"
Lucian's gun was out before he finished.
One shot. Silence.
The man crumpled, lifeless.
Lucian holstered the weapon, his face unreadable. But inside, a storm raged.
The war wasn't over. It was only beginning.
And this time, the enemy wasn't just another king. It was an empire risen from ashes — one that knew every scar, every secret, every weakness of Lucian Moretti.
---
In the next room, Elena stirred awake from a restless sleep. For reasons she couldn't explain, her chest tightened, her breath quickened. She rose, clutching Isabella close.
She didn't know why. But deep in her heart, she felt it too.
The shadows weren't done with them.
Not yet.